


the snack that smiles back

by barebones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Comfort, Episode: s14e03 The Scar, M/M, it's getting domestic up in here, two dads making soup for their sick kid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:54:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barebones/pseuds/barebones
Summary: “So, the kid’s caught his first cold, huh?” Dean asks, watching as Cas fetches a bag of plain Goldfish crackers—really,Goldfish?—from the pantry and sets it on the bed tray that also accommodates the bowl of piping hot soup and a glass of orange juice.(14.03 “The Scar” coda)





	the snack that smiles back

When he and Sam return from Sioux Falls, Dean’s mind has yet to have stopped racing eighty miles per hour, the reminder that Michael is weak to a weapon that they—that he—had failed to acquire the diesel pumping in his veins.

As much as he hates to admit it, pining for some elusive weapon, of doing the ugliest things to have it, reminds him of the Mark demanding the First Blade, of an itch that can’t quite be scratched. He imagines holding the spear would feel _right,_ like the tool necessary to wipe out Michael and his modified monsters. At least this rodeo doesn’t have him raring to kill just _anyone_ and everyone. With the Mark, there was no gray—only red—but right now, he can see clearly. His head is above water, finally, after a month of struggling to breach the surface. He’s fine because he’s breathing.

He’s breathing, and he’s hungry. His stomach gurgles while he changes into clean clothes, some ratty band shirt and jeans that dig annoyingly into his hips but which remind him again that this body is his own. No more waistcoats and paperboy caps for this guy, thanks. He catches the brief reflection of the scar on his right arm before he makes for his bedroom door.

Dipping his head in awkward salutation is the best he can offer every time—at least thrice—he encounters these new bunkermates of theirs on the way to the kitchen. It’s weird, these people he barely knows calling Sam _chief_ and occupying a space that Dean once thought as private and belonging only to his family. He hoped that hunters would someday find this place, just as they themselves had done, that they would use its resources to save the world in the Winchesters' stead. He couldn’t have predicted that it would happen so soon, though, not while the memory of him and Sam, carving their initials into the library’s table, lives in his mind.

Soon as he rounds the corner, he registers that the kitchen is, thankfully, empty, save for one person, trench-coated and squinting at an empty can of Campbell’s soup. Dean isn’t wearing his boots, only gray socks that probably started off white when they were bought, but Cas hears him anyway, welcomes him with, “Hello, Dean.” His eyes don’t stray from the label he struggles to parse. “How was the drive?”

Sam phoned Cas not too long after they’d hit the road for Lebanon, relaying the highlights: of Kaia and her spear and of Jody’s broken arm; of vamps on steroids, and the confirmation again that, yes, Michael is building an army, that he’s unhinged enough to fight a girl for the sole power she possesses. Dean’s stomach roils. _You’re no different than him._

Gulping down his guilt, Dean sidles up beside Cas. “It was, well… you know.” He sees now that the soup is tomato-rice—suddenly he’s four-years-old again, his mom feeding him Campbell’s, too, because, as it turns out, Mary never cared for homemade—and Cas keeps frowning at the instructions like they’ve personally offended him. “You, uh, need a hand there?”

From the print Cas finally unglues his tired eyes, the blue of them sliding easily over Dean, his face, and then downward, from Dean’s threadbare shirt to his jeans. In the early days, Dean would’ve crossed his arms, as if it were ever possible to hide from Cas’ scrutiny; instead, here, under the hum of the kitchen’s butterscotch lighting, standing abreast at the stove, he only gauges Cas’ expression, waiting. Suddenly his mind is barreling towards something that isn't the spear.

“I… yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you.” Cas exhales, not in defeat but relief. “I’ve only ever heated up beans before.”

Amusement leads to the corner of Dean’s mouth twitching. “So, what’s givin’ you trouble?”

“It’s… too congealed.” Cas gestures to the saucepan, whose contents gurgle thick red bubbles. A film has begun to cling to the silver, and Dean can tell already that the bottom of the soup is in danger of burning. “I don’t think it should be like that.”

Dean’s chuckle isn’t unkind. “Well, first: you’ve got the temp up too high, buddy.” He dials it down to below medium before lifting the pan altogether from its burner. That gets Cas’ brow to crinkle, curious. “Didja add any milk?”

Cas shakes his head, solemn. “The directions say to add ‘one can of milk,’ which we don’t have.”

It’s so endearing, Cas’ answer, it has Dean hesitating before he explains, fighting a full-blown grin, “You’re _holding_ the can, man. You’ve gotta refill it with milk from the carton.”

Cas blinks once, twice, the obvious washing over him. “That’s… perfectly logical,” he mumbles, his smile rueful. He huffs through his nose. “I should’ve known.”

Dean shrugs, suspending the saucepan in midair yet to allow the bottom of it to cool and for the soup to hopefully unstick from it. “It ain’t no thing. I’ve never followed those instructions, anyway.”

Instantaneously Cas’ smile turns fond. “I believe it.”

Dean’s eyes linger a few heartbeats past comfortable on Cas’ smile, so he closes them, nods to the fridge, and grumbles, “Mind, uh, grabbin’ the milk?”

After that, Dean teaches Cas how adding a splash of milk here and there is better than dumping in gratuitous amounts of it right off the bat, how the soup should _gradually_ be heated lest “the milk end up curdled and gross.” Cas hangs onto Dean’s every word, like Dean is Gordon freakin’ Ramsay or some shit and not the product of a latchkey kid who grew up learning how to salvage the taste of canned goods for him and his baby brother. By the end of the lesson, Dean’s forgotten all about his own hunger.

“So, the kid’s caught his first cold, huh?” Dean asks, watching as Cas fetches a bag of plain Goldfish crackers—really, _Goldfish?_ —from the pantry and sets it on the bed tray that also accommodates the bowl of piping hot soup and a glass of orange juice.

“That seems to be the case.” By an inclination of his head, Cas gestures to the tray now held up by each of his hands, his eyes on Dean, and he smiles, in echo of their most recent reunion, something soft and genuine. “Would you care to do the honors? After all, you did most of the work.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, Dean leaning casually against the counter. It would be easy to cross the few feet of distance separating them and kiss Cas like he’s wanted to for so long—long before Michael—to acknowledge this thing that had buoyed on the murky waters of Michael’s possession and encouraged Dean to _swim, swim, swim_ towards it.

He shakes his head. “Nah, man, it’s all you,” he says, reluctantly breaking the eye contact. The last interaction he had with Jack dawns on him, and yeah, he’d definitely been a dick to the poor kid. Now probably wouldn’t be the best time. “I’ll catch up with ‘im later.”

Cas seems to understand, so he nods, taking the tray and with it the comfort of his presence.

Dean doesn’t care for how unoccupied his hands feel afterwards, so with his appetite gone, he opts to finish the job and wash out the pan. He’s halfway through rinsing the suds out of it when he hears familiar footsteps, and then Mary is there, back from Duluth, evidently, and beaming at him.

“Hey,” she greets, heading to the fridge for a beer. It’s the first time, really, that’s he gotten to look at her since his return, and her hair’s an inch longer than Dean remembers it being. “What’re we having?” She glances down at the clean pan, amends that last question with, “Well, what _did_ we have?”

Dean watches as she twists the cap off and takes a sip. “Some tomato-rice soup for Jack,” he answers, shutting off the tap. “Same as what—”

“I used to make for you.” Her eyes are bright with the light of recollection. “Whenever you were sick.”

It can’t be helped: Dean directs a nostalgic grin down at the rack on which he places the pan to dry. “Yeah… yeah, you did.”

Patting his forearm, she says softly, “If only tomato-rice soup did the trick for everything these days, huh?”

Although his grin’s simmered down to a strained smile, he replies, “Yeah, if only,” and he breathes. Despite everything, Dean breathes.

**Author's Note:**

> probably everyone and their dog have written similar coda for this episode bUT LET ME LIVE (also yes, the title is a definite double entendre _wink wonk_ )
> 
> thanks for reading!! ♥


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